


Somnia

by LeTempest



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Blood and Sand, Spartacus: Vengeance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Canon Gay Relationship, Canon Queer Character of Color, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-12
Updated: 2012-09-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 03:09:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeTempest/pseuds/LeTempest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.” </p><p>This a tumblr prompt fill for Antiquecompass, who requested some Barca/Pietros and I decided it should be happy because I have a lot of feels :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somnia

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: You know the drill. I don't own them, I never will and this is just for fun

_Years in the arena, years of death, and blood and pain. Killing his own people, his own father. And this is what ends he met._

 

_The treacherous fuck, Ashur, with his words that slithered into Dominus ear, like maggots. The words of a cripple, of a serpent, of a man not fit to bear the mark; these were the words that would end him._

 

_The blades struck again, and again, piercing through flesh to spear the organs beneath. He was dying man, he knew that, even as the rains fell upon him. He would die here._

 

_But still fought. Fought for memory of dark, honest eyes. Of gentle hands, far too delicate and fine to belong among such men as he. Of that tender smile, and hopeful laugh. For the memory of the boy who had seen his heart made nearly whole again; who had made him more man than beast once again._

 

_What would happen to the boy, when he was gone?_

 

_The knife slid across his throat and breath escaped him a final time. As he fell into the water, he mourned the loss of his boy, of the life they may have had, of the freedom he had promised time and again. And yet, he could not bring himself to regret the lie he had told._

 

_Death was easy for the dying. Not so for those left behind._

 

_He sank into darkness._

 

~*~

 

Warmth. That was the first sensation. Yet there was cold too, as if it stood only a little outside of him. Awareness came in degrees. First the feel of blankets on bare skin, the soft crackling of a fire and the shuffle of human moment, the racket of animals not far removed, the crisp smell of fresh rain, the hot sizzle of food in the pan. He wondered, in that moment between dreams and wakefulness, if he had not imagined it all. This seemed too much like home, like Carthage, in the days before war.

 

But familiar pains, from wounds long healed, began to make themselves known. Wounds earned in the arena at Capua. No, that had not been a dream, no matter how the man would wish it. He sighed, not yet ready to open his eyes and face the world.

 

The pallet dipped with the wait of another body and he smiled, as a long fingered hand fingered his braids.

 

“I worried you would never wake,” the boy teased, “It’s already past dawn.”

 

Arms still strong from years of battle wrapped themselves around the young man’s waist, pulling him back down in to the comfort of the bed. He went, laughing and squirming, but not putting up much fight.

 

“There is no training to be done, no swords to fetch. Let us linger a little longer,” Barca muttered, tugging the blankets over his lovers body.

 

Pietros gave an indignant sigh, but their was no force behind it, and he rested his head against his man’s bare chest.

 

“Now our bed will smell of the goats,” he teased, drawing circles over Barca’s skin.

 

The former gladiator grabbed the boy’s idle hand, bringing it to his lips.

 

“Did it not already? The smell of the beasts lingers on everything it seems,” he teased, “You’re cold.”

 

“I was up before sunrise, tending the animals. But it’s warmer now, with the sun up. It will be spring soon, you can smell it on the air.”

 

He propped himself up on elbow.

 

“And you can finally shave of that beast that has spent the winter roosting on your face,” the boy teased, tugging at Barca’s beard.

 

The bigger man gave him look.

 

“My father wore a beard my whole life. I wore one as well, before the Roman’s came. All the men among my people did, if they were of age.”

 

“Then it’s good we are not among your people,” Pietros laughed, “it makes you appear as an old man.”

 

Barca took the slight to heart, ready to enact his vengeance. Arm wrapped around Pietros’ waist , he rolled their bodies, trapping the smaller man, still fully clothed, beneath him.

 

“You have no qualms towards loving old men,” he chuckled against the sin of Pietros’ throat; the youth craned his head back and sighed pleasantly, “ Or else you would never have fallen to be with me in the first place.”

 

Large, warm hands slid beneath the hem of Pietros’ tunic, firm and strong against the taunt muscles of his stomach.

 

“Nor would I be so inclined to play dutifully wife. But for an old man, you have the stamina of a stallion, and that doesn’t hurt your case,” Pietros shot back, fingers lacing with Barca’s, where they had trapped them over the boys head.

 

Words were forgotten in favor of slow, leisurely kisses. Hands touched flesh with all the freedom in the world, with no worries of reprimand or order or interruption.

 

“What kept you so long abed,” Pietros asked, after a time.

 

Barca sighed, rolling on to his back and staring at the ceiling of their modest house.

 

“Dreams,” he said simply.

 

“The same?”

 

Pietros coiled one of Barca’s braids around his finger.

 

“As always.”

 

Pietros’ lips found Barca’s again, binding the with a kiss.

 

“Push them from mind. We are free men now. Think no more of that fuck, Batiatus,” the boy whispered against his skin, a sudden fire in his voice.

 

It was still strange to here the boy speak of Batiatus, to have the word Dominus exchanged for a name, to hear it expelled with such venom.

 

“See yourself from bed,” Pietros said, untangling himself, “We are to market, remember?”

 

Barca rolled over, watching the boy for a moment longer. He’d grown in the short months since they had left Capua. Not in such height or size, for he was still slender but he had never been frail. There was easiness to his movements now, a freedom to the way he spoke. In their bed, he withheld no sound of pleasure, not demand of want or passion. His smiles and laughs were more frequent these days. But their were a few physical changes as well. Hands grew more calloused and hard from farm work, his muscle grew more solid from the lifting and carrying of crops and livestock. His hair was longer now too. Barca had helped him with it, twisted the course hair into locks not unlike his own. They nearly brushed Pietros’ shoulders now, swaying when he moved. They were strung through with the occasional glass or bone bead, pretty trinkets that the former gladiator had bought in the market, or carved himself with a careful hand. The ornaments the boy had worn in the ludus were gone, sold along the road to gain much needed coin.

 

But it had not been a difficult parting, not for Pietros anyway. It had been like cleansing a wound, sloughing off the last taint of that place.

 

“Will have to drag you,” Pietros called over his shoulder and Barca heaved a theatric breath, pulling himself to his feet.

 

They lived a ways from the nearest true town, though to eyes that had spent so long in Capua, it seemed little more than a village, the villages seeming little more than household. Still, the smallness and the privacy suited them. They could raise their goats and tend their gardens in relative peace. No one here knew what they had been, the gladiator and the ludus slave, that they had ever been slaves at all.

 

Business was good in the market today, with the warmth of Spring coming on. They sold some stock and bought their provisions, speaking in passing to merchants and familiar faces, but mostly to one another.

 

They were nearly ready to head homeward, when a snatch of conversation caught Pietros’ ear and put a hand on Barca’s arm, stilling him as he loaded the wagon.

 

“All of them, dead. A whole house full of politicians. They say someone locked the doors from the outside during the madness,” one woman was saying to the other, twirling her dark curls around on finger.

 

“I traveled to Capua once, when I was young,” the other said shaking her head, “My father took my mother and I along while he traded with the romans there. I can not say such death was any great loss. They had a thirst for blood to rival rabid beast!”

 

It was Pietros who approached them, with his gentle eyes and kind smile.

 

“Apologize, but you bring news of Capua,” he asked politely.

 

The dark haired woman shook her head.

 

“Grave news I fear. Do you know the city?”

 

“In passing,” he said, “But I have long been outside  the shadow of Rome. Still, I keep ears open for news of her going ons.”

 

“Then you may scarcely believe, but there has been a slave rebellion,” the other squawked, her face brimming with excitement.

 

“Rebellion,” Barca asked coming to stand next to his boy.

 

“Oh yes! It seems a lanista in the city of Capua had his ludus turn against him. During a great party no less. The gladiators killed them all. They say the streets of the cities echo with his name.”

 

“Who’s name,” Pietros pressed.

 

The women glanced at each other, sharing a knowing smile.

 

“Spartacus. Like the Thracian king of old.”

 

Pietros glanced at his lover, his face both shocked and pleased. Barca could only laugh.

 

“Jupiter’s cock. The goat fucker’s finally done it,” he said, almost to himself. 


End file.
